See fell Remorse, in action prompt to dart
Her fnaky poifon thro' the confcious heart!
And Sloth, to cancel, with oblivious fhame,
The fair memorial of recording Fame!

Are these delights that one would wish to gain
Is this th' elyfium of a sober brain?
To wait for happinefs in female fmiles,

Bear all her fcorn, be caught with all her wiles;

T

With pray'rs, with bribes, with lyes, her pity crave,
Bless her hard bonds, and boast to be her flave;
To feel, for trifles, a diftracting train

Of hopes and terrors, equally in vain ;
This hour to tremble, and the next to glow;
Can pride, can fenfe, can reason stoop fo low
When Virtue, at an eafter price, difplays
The facred wreaths of honourable praise ;
When Wisdom utters her divine decree,
To laugh at pompous Folly, and be free.
I bid adieu, then, to thefe woeful fcenes

I bid adieu to all the fex of queens;
Adieu to ev'ry fuff'ring, fimple foul,

That let's a woman's will his eafe controul.

There, laugh, ye witty; and rebuke, ye grave!
For me, I fcorn to boast that I'm a flave.
I bid the whining brotherhood be gone.
Joy to my heart! my wishes are my own!
Farewel the female heav'n, the female hell!
To the great god of love a glad farewel!
Is this the triumph of thy awful name?
Are these the splendid hopes that urg'd thy aim,
When firft my bofom own'd thy haughty fway?
When thus Minerva heard thee, boating, fay-
• Go, martial maid, elsewhere thy arts employ,
Nor hope to fhelter that devoted boy:

T

• Go, teach the folemn fons of care and age,
• The penfive statesman, and the midnight fage;

• The young with me must other leffons prove;
Youth calls for pleasure, pleasure calls for love.
• Behold his heart thy grave advice disdains,
< Behold I bind him in eternal chains."

Alas! great Love, how idle was the boast!
Thy chains are broken, and thy leffons loft.
Thy wilful rage has tir'd my fuff'ring heart,
And paffion, reason, forc'd thee to depart.

But wherefore doft thou linger on thy way?
Why vainly search for fome pretence to stay,
When crowds of vaffals court thy pleasing yoke,
And countless victims bow them to the ftroke?
Lo! round thy fhrine a thousand youths advance,
Warm with the gentle ardours of romance;
Each longs t' affert thy caufe with feats of arms,
And make the world confefs Dulcinea's charms.
Ten thousand girls, with flow'ry chaplets crown'd,
To groves and streams thy tender triumph found;
Each bids the ftream in murmurs speak her flame,
Each calls the grove to figh her fhepherd's name.
But if thy pride fuch easy honour scorn,

If nobler trophies must thy toil adorn,
Behold yon flow'ry antiquated maid
Bright in the bloom of threefcore years display'd;
Her shalt thou bind in thy delightful chains,
And thrill with gentle pangs her wither'd veins;
Her frofty cheek with crimson blushes dye,
With dreams of rapture melt her maudlin eye.
Turn then thy labours to the servile crowd,
Entice the wary, and controul the proud;
Make the fad mife his beft gains forego,
The folemn ftatefman figh to be a beau;
The bold coquette with fondeft paffion burn,
The Bacchanalian o'er his bottle mourn;
And that chief glory of thy pow'r maintain,

Be these thy triumphs, but no more prefume
That my rebellious heart will yield thee room.
I know thy puny force, thy fimple wiles;
I break triumphant thro' thy flimsy toils;
I fee thy dying lamp's last languid glow,
Thy arrows blunted, and unbrac'd thy bow;
I feel diviner fires my breaft inflame,
To active science, and ingenuous fame:
Refume the paths my earlieft choice began,
And lofe, with pride, the lover in the man.

こ

LYCID A S*.

YET

Л MONODY.

BY MR. JOHN MILTON.

ET once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never fere,

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and fad occafion dear,
Compels me to disturb your feafon due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime;
Young Lycidas! and hath not left his peer.
Who would not fing for Lycidas? he knew

Himself to fing, and build the lofty rhime.
He must not float upon his wat'ry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of fome melodious tear.

This poem was made upon the unfortunate and untimely death of Mr. Edward King, fon of Sir John King fecretary for Ireland, (a fellow-collegian and intimate friend of our author) who, as he was going to vifit his relations in Ireland, was drowned on the 10th of August 1637, and in the 25th year of his age. Dr. NEWTON.

Stothard del

Angus. South

Plate XII.

Publifh'd as the Act directs by Hamion & Co Nov! 1.1781.

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